


Through the bars

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Furiosa on top, Kink Negotiation, Morning After, Muzzle Kink, Subdrop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-04 08:52:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18601168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: Max wants to wear the muzzle again.Inspired by byyoukaiyume'sawesome NSFW art





	1. Chapter 1

Max and Furiosa are sparring. It’s something they do for exercise, for practice, sometimes for foreplay, particularly when the exercise room is quiet. Today, it’s empty, just them, plenty of space for wrestling. Even for running tackles.

She gets him down, sitting on his chest with her knees trapping his arms, the air knocked right out of him. Max is caught between gasping and laughter as he looks up at her, at the curve of her thighs, at the leather sitting snug on her crotch. Then he hears the clank of a chain, one of the lifts being pulled up outside. For just a second, he remembers their first fight so clearly that he might be looking through the bars of the muzzle. 

She gets off him, reaching down with her flesh hand to pull him to his feet. He shakes his head, trying to clear his vision. Nudging him, Furiosa leads the way to the water pipe. 

“You okay?” She hands him the cup and starts stretching, giving him space.

“Yeah – I just –” He wipes his hand over his face, gets a glimpse of her through his fingers. She’s looking at him, concerned.

“Is it – ” She stops. “I thought, maybe. You dreamed about the muzzle.”

Max is astonished. It hadn’t been one of his nightmares, just a complicated, sweaty dream, with vivid physical memories tangled up in bright colours and random images. The muzzle is all he really remembers of it, now, but he has no idea how she knew.

“You said, ‘this thing on my face,’” she explains. Oh. 

She goes back to stretching, arms up, one hand on the elbow of her nub, placed deftly between the pad and struts of her prosthetic. He likes it when she spars with the arm on, likes the sense of trust involved. As she stretches, he watches her muscles working, her arms framing her face, the position lifting the line of her breasts. His cock has woken up: at the sight of her, in reaction to the way they’ve been grappling, or from something else.

He has a queasy, squirmy sense of wanting, a hunger for the feeling that lies just under the panic of being trapped or overpowered. He can’t stop thinking about the muzzle, can’t tell if that’s curiosity or exorcism or what. His heart is beating harder, not just from the exercise.

Her stretch finished, she reaches out to cup his face. He wraps his hand around her wrist, moving hers to cover his mouth. Very carefully, she spreads her flesh fingers into a familiar pattern, something he’s already seen in steel. When he leans into it, she cradles the back of his head with her metal hand, holding him firm.

“I could find a muzzle,” she says, the next day. “If you wanted.” Max nods, looks away.

She comes over, sits next to him. “Tell me what you need.” Her voice is very soft. They sit still for a moment.

“It’s, I don’t know. I…” He takes a deep breath. “Want to wear it again.” It sounds strange, said out loud, but it doesn’t feel like the wrong decision. “Make sense of it.” She nods, shifting a little on the bench. When her thigh comes to rest against his, Max presses back.

“Is it about sex?” He twitches, shrugs. “I’m going to need more than that,” Furiosa points out. He grunts, takes a moment to think about it. He’d had a sexual response when they first talked about it – but then, he’d found himself achingly hard last time he saw her strip an engine, so that’s hardly conclusive.

“Not exactly, mm, about that,” he offers. “But. It’s you.” She smiles at that, her dimples showing.

On a quiet afternoon, she takes him back to her room, shows him the muzzle she’s found. It’s a heavy thing, old and bashed. She thinks it will need adjusting, if it’s to fit him. Explaining, she lifts it, as if to put it over her own head. Max is shocked.

“Stop, no, please.” His voice is urgent, then trails away. He struggles to explain why it bothers him so much. Furiosa puts the muzzle down, climbs into his lap and holds him tight. She makes a pleased, relieved sound when he strokes her back, hands just above her leather bodice. It’s a while before they talk about it again. 

When they do, it’s Max who raises it. If he wants to think about restraints, how does he know she doesn’t? He doesn’t think she was ever muzzled, but he doubts she’d tell him if she had been. They don’t often talk about their bad times, not on purpose. Things spill out during nightmares, sometimes, and in the moments of panic when the worst memories rise. He stumbles when he tries to ask about it, whether it’s something she needs. 

“No. It isn’t.” She kisses him. “I should have been more careful.” He presses his face against her for a moment.

“But we could, I could…?” 

“Yes.” She kisses him again.

Still, she’s cautious, particularly when he says he wants his hands tied. She finds a set of handcuffs, but insists on testing things out in stages, just doing his hands first. 

It gets unexpectedly playful. Knowing he’s not going to be muzzled today makes having his wrists bound feel easy; it doesn’t go to the same scary places. Although he can’t get his hands on her, he does nuzzle her shoulder, kissing as much of her as he can reach, ends up trying to nibble her clothes off.

Max likes this, but he wants more, wants harder. He wants the extremity of it, or fears that he does. He doesn’t complain when she fastens the handcuffs tight, but she notices, eases the setting.

What he wants is to be overwhelmed. When they fight, he can usually beat her, if it really comes down to it. He’s bigger and stronger, so though she’s supple, and can be vicious, it’s not an equal fight. Tying his hands changes the balance.

Max remembers when Jessie brought home handcuffs. She’d gone out and got her own pair, even though he had an official set from the force. 

“That’s work,” she had said, back before the world fell. “This is different.” They’d played around with them, tried both ways; he’d preferred it when she cuffed him, enjoyed the way she teased him. It had been fun, a game. Handcuffs mean something else to him now, but even that gets nowhere near how he feels about the muzzle.

He tries it on several times, while they work on the fit of it, adjusting the metal fork and the straps, feeling the weight of the chain and padlock. Even that is strangely intense. Fear and rage and confusion rise in him, urgent and sour, though he knows they’re only practising. 

Furiosa lingers over preparation. She wants everything set up before she puts the muzzle on him, agreeing words and signals for if he needs to stop. She’s particularly careful about sexual limits, what she will and won’t do to him like this. Max tries to answer her carefully, but for him the big thing is agreeing to be muzzled. He trusts her to do whatever she wants to him, after that. 

His strongest opinion is about whether she keeps her arm on. 

“Yes.” He says it at once, almost before she’s finished asking. Furiosa smiles.

Once the next trade run is out of the way, they’re ready to go. Max spends the whole day thinking about it, wondering what he’s got himself into, trying to ignore the shivers of excitement. As they work in the garage, he can’t stop looking at Furiosa, eyes seeking her out. She seems impossibly calm.

Back in her room, the door safely locked, she starts to undress. Max is taken aback: he hadn’t expected that, though they’ve agreed that he’ll strip naked. She looks up to find him staring. 

“I can – I don’t have to –” she says. 

“Not a problem.” His voice is already hoarse. Furiosa gives several little nods, the way she does when she’s pretending something is going exactly how she expected it. She’s slightly flushed.

For some reason, he’d assumed that, if she was wearing her arm, she’d keep her clothes on too. Instead, she’s stripped bare, unguarded, the metal and leather of the prosthetic standing out against her naked torso. He wants to bury his face in the darker hair between her legs. The trust of it is breathtaking, though he already knows she can do as she likes with him, with just her bare skin. 

Max stands very still, holding himself quiet, as she cuffs his wrists behind him and slips the mask over his head. She takes her time doing up the straps, making sure that he’s comfortable. The metal is cold against his cheeks and chin.

“Are you ready?” she asks, once she’s finished. He nods, and drops to his knees.

There’s a second when he can feel her about to argue, concerned about how the position will affect his bad leg. Then she accepts it, lets him have this, moves into place.

She steps closer, almost close enough to touch, grasping the end of the chain. Moving slowly, very carefully, she draws it tighter, until he can feel the tug of it, tilting his head into position. 

Max is kneeling for her, chained and bound, letting himself be pulled into a taut line. He can hear the sound of his own breath, smell the metallic rust-oil-steel of the muzzle, and the very human scent of his own body beyond it, his own and Furiosa’s. She’s so close, almost touching him, near enough that he’s aware of her body heat. All he’d have to do to touch her is to lean in, to pull against the chain. He’s almost trembling with how much he wants to. 

Part of the safety is knowing she won’t break, knowing that she’ll hold him to it as long as he needs it. She is ruthless, and he trusts her. What he asks for, she’ll give him. There’s a deep, shuddering relief to that. Being held steady means he can look at his fear without flinching, feel it without running away.

“You can touch, if you ask,” she tells him, speaking softly.

He’d said it wasn’t exactly about sex, but his cock is already filling, as if his body wants to reach for her of its own accord. He can smell her, the musk between her legs, tormenting and reassuring. 

“You’re here,” she says, her voice steady and calm. “You’re mine. It’s okay.” His cock twitches so painfully hard that he moans out loud. He wants to touch her so badly.

“Please. Please.” 

“Tell me what you want.” He doesn’t know what to ask for. He wants and doesn’t even know what, just needs more of this, wants her to push the sensation. He whines. “You’re not feral, Max,” she reminds him. A shiver goes through him at the sound of his name, the sound of that word. “Talk to me.”

“Hold me down.” He’s begging. 

Almost before he knows it, he’s on his back. He should be familiar with the sweat and thwack of sparring with her, fast and tough and giving him no quarter, but her speed can still take him by surprise. His body resists, fighting back of its own accord, bucking under her. She gets him down with strategy and precision, using the fact that his hands are bound, that his reactions are slowed. 

Even so, he nearly dislodges her when she grabs the chain of the muzzle tighter, her face down close to his. He can feel her legs braced against his chest, knees pinning his elbows. The skin of her inner thighs is very soft, her pubic hair barely touching him. She’s right there and so out of reach.

And she does it so gently. He’s held down by her voice and her gaze as much as her body. When their eyes meet, a jolt goes through him. He recognises it, remembers the first time she looked at him, when he was trapped on the hood of a car, muzzled and bleeding. 

He realises he’s panting, breath harsh in her quiet room. His arms are trapped awkwardly under him, the hard edge of the handcuffs digging into his back, hips canted into the air as if to draw attention to his erection. Furiosa ignores it, poised over his chest. With her flesh hand, she strokes his hair, just a moment of touch, before her metal hand tightens on the chain.

Max is back where he was when he first saw her, pinned and muzzled, even more vulnerable this time because he’s naked and there’s nowhere to hide from the fact that he wanted this, asked for it. He’s shivering with fear and relief and want, smelling her and feeling her and not being able to touch. His blood is thumping in his throat, the air cool against his sweaty skin, her green eyes and certainty keeping him just where it’s most overwhelming. She is so dangerous, and so careful. His tremble has become a full shake, lying under her, held bare and open, his cock aching with need. 

Max has been afraid for more than half his life, enduring wave after wave of terror, panic and slow dread. Going there on purpose brings its own kind of release. It’s not that the fear is any less: his whole body is twanging with it, with being forced to feel what he runs away from. This isn’t just physical fear. They’re edging into one of the dark places of his head, where panic can make him feral, testing and redrawing the boundary with her there to guard it for him. The what ifs are terrifying, but he’s held solid.

The metal is cold against his wrists, against his face. It’s a reminder of his own violence, making him face his own danger and cruelty, even as it traps him, holds him powerless. Furiosa moves very slowly, her movements exact, her voice low. Her fingers just brush his canula scar, oddly tender, as she steadies his face.

“I’m going to get off, and you’re going to lie still. Yes?” Max has to bite back another whine. He can’t nod with her hands keeping him in place. 

“Yes?” she says again.

“Yes.” It comes out as a long sigh. His own breath is warm against his mouth, trapped by the metal. He’s suddenly exhausted, body keyed up and weak with relief, submitting entirely. There’s a sense of release to it, of freedom, even as fear still beats and his body still wants. 

It’s almost a shock when she gets up, despite the warning. Max feels even more exposed, lying there in an awkward heap, without the comfort of her touch. Furiosa must notice, because when she comes back, she puts down the pot of Gastown jelly and pulls his wrist, getting his hands out from under him so that she can reach the lock of the handcuffs.

“Gonna trust you not to touch,” she says. “Leave your hands lying flat.” Max growls, can’t help it, want thick in his throat. But he does as he’s told. 

He’s staring up in wonder when she climbs back onto him, her legs open above his face, her body so strong and precise as she looms over him. Picking up the chain, she pulls it carefully, easing his head up until at last, at last his face is pressed between her thighs.

It’s glorious and infuriating, her cunt almost in reach of his mouth, of his tongue, the muzzle still keeping them apart. He gets tiny brushes of touch, the tickle of hair and the scent of her, tantalising and intoxicating. He’s making little noises, hands twitching with the urge to touch her. They’re pressed so close he can feel her laugh, the way it shakes her midriff. Then he feels her flesh hand on his wrist, pulling his hand up to rest on her thigh. Max can’t help moaning, gripping tight and planting his face more firmly, pushing against the hard bars of the muzzle. 

Furiosa pulls the chain tighter, holds him there, panting and frustrated and wanting. From the corner of his eye, he can see her slick her fingers, digging them into the jelly. When she strokes his cock, he comes almost at once, barely one wet touch before he lets go, keyed up and desperate. His vision blurs, leaving him lost and bare and uncontrolled, trapped and released in the same moment.

When his eyes open again, Furiosa is undoing the muzzle, her fingers deft. He moans again when she lifts it off his face, at the release of seeing clearly, escaping the bars and straps. And knowing that he’d earned it.

She holds him against her, cuddling him while his breathing steadies. He can feel her bare skin under his cheek, interrupted by the strap of her prosthetic. After a moment, she tilts his chin up, her hand cupping his face. Max doesn’t realise he’s smiling until she touches her thumb to his lips. She’s been so gentle, all through this, but her face has gone a different kind of soft.

“Going to get you some water, yeah?” She holds and pets him a little longer before encouraging him to lean back against the side of the bed. Getting up, she takes the muzzle with her, shutting it away in her tin chest.

She brings back a cloth with the cup and jug. Once he’s had enough to drink, she dips the washcloth and rubs it over him, firm enough to scrub the sweat away. They’re touching all the time, Max resting against her. She brushes small kisses onto his skin as she goes, here and there, unpredictable and sweet. He mumbles in protest when she pulls away to wash his legs, so she shuffles up, sitting a little closer, near enough that they’re still touching. Tugging him forward to do his back, she lets his head rest on her shoulder. 

Towelling him dry, she moves quickly, before he can get cold, then goes over his body again in slow, even strokes. She lingers over the places where his muscles tighten, particularly careful around his damaged knee. It feels wonderful: he has no tension left, everything loose and easy, so being massaged is nothing but pleasure. 

When she’s done, she more or less picks him up to sit on the bed. Sliding his sleeping shirt over his head, she tugs it deftly into place, covering up his tattooed back, keeping him warm. 

Max feels like he’s floating, mind dazed and body tingling. Furiosa strips off her arm and draws him into bed, wrapping herself around him. He’s dressed and she’s naked, there for him to touch as much as he likes. Often they’ll spoon after sex, but she’s holding him face to face, where he can reach all of her while she pets and kisses him. Her skin is so finely-textured: a little rougher where it’s tanned from the sun, very smooth where it’s usually hidden under her clothes.

Muzzily, he remembers that she hasn’t come. He paws at her thigh, offering, but she shakes her head. 

“Not now. It’s fine.” She combs her fingers through his hair.

She had said he was hers. 

It’s not something they’ve ever said to each other before. He’s not sure if it counts, if it was just part of the fiction of the muzzle. Possessive words are still a touchy subject in the new Citadel, where people are not things and cannot be owned. Max remembers a time when belonging could be a promise rather than a violation, but he’s still not sure if he can say it back, if he can deal with it when it’s real. He sighs again and burrows closer. 

Furiosa kisses his hairline, her hand stroking his back. His muscles are lax, his whole body heavy but at ease. She tilts his head back, kisses his mouth, his cheeks, his chin. Max hadn’t thought he could get more relaxed, but he melts, sighing in pleasure. 

“You’re here,” she murmurs, lips moving against his skin. “You’re safe. It’s okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning after cuddles.

Furiosa wakes early. Max is deeply asleep, his head against her shoulder, one arm still over her. She manages to eases her way out of bed without waking him, getting up to use the sandbucket and drink a cup of water. 

It’s rare for him to stay fully asleep when she moves. When she returns, he has rolled over to lie on his back, not quite awake but not really asleep any more. She slips in next to him, feels him settle against her.

The next time she wakes, he’s still on his back, looking up at the stone ceiling. He’s not tense, exactly, but there’s something. 

Max is usually at his snuggliest in the morning. It’s as if he has an instinct for affection that he tries to hold in check, until sleep lowers his defences. Intimacy is still a process for both of them: letting themselves open up, step by step. Some steps are more familiar than others. There’s plenty of morning softness in his expression today, but something melancholy, too.

“Morning.” Furiosa nudges a little closer. “Are you okay?” He murmurs, his arm moving back around her, with a kind of relief as he cuddles in.

“Tired,” he says. She’s surprised. He didn’t have a disturbed night, no nightmares; he tends to sleep better after sex. They both do. 

She wriggles, propping herself on her left elbow so she can look at his face. She wouldn’t push it, tries to respect his privacy, but this isn’t usual. After last night, she’s worried that she may have done something to hurt him. She strokes one finger down his nose, to his full lips. He kisses her fingertip.

“Last night.” She tries to keep her voice neutral. Her heart is beating faster than it should, for a lazy morning. Though they’re curled close and soft, there’s a tightness in her belly. “It was a lot.”

This isn’t easy territory. It’s one thing to fuck Max, to cuddle him, to soothe him after nightmares or allow herself to be soothed. It’s something else to talk about it. 

She tenses a little when he nods, can’t help it. She thought she’d been so careful, making sure she didn’t push too hard, that she hadn’t given him anything he didn’t want. Max makes a reassuring rumble, kisses her fingertip again. 

“It was good,” he says. “Just, a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s like…” He stops. She waits, nervous but oddly comforted by the effort he puts into trying to explain this properly. “The day after a big fight. You feel tired, maybe sad.”

That, she recognises. The endorphin rush can make fighting wonderful, lifting her above pain and fear, letting muscle memory and conviction take over. It all hits afterwards, the comedown along with the aches and the bruises. At least this time neither of them has anything to be ashamed of.

“Maybe – maybe take it easy today?” she offers. He hums agreement. They’d chosen last night because this is a quiet time. There won’t be another trade run for days, the garage isn’t busy, no political storms brewing that she’s aware of. They can afford a morning of lying in bed and cuddling.

She pushes more firmly against him, feels him sigh. Something eases.

Max turns on his side, shifting down so they’re not quite face to face. He kisses her shoulder.

“Wanted it,” he says, lips on her skin. “Not often. But last night, mm. It was good.” She puts her arms around him, pulling him closer, her nose against the top of his head. His cowlick tickles her cheek.

Max tilts his head, enough to kiss the fast pulse in her throat. Without really meaning to, she’s hanging onto him. He presses against her, his stubble tickling.

“What about you?” He kisses her neck again, when she doesn’t answer at once.

It had been a lot, the vulnerability of it – her own, as well as his. She’s never been more aware of the risk she’s taken, is still taking, in letting him in. 

It’s not the physicality. She enjoys sparring with him: the competition, the sense of matching herself against someone she can rely on. Having him stretched out under her had been different territory. The trust of it was just so much. It’s why she checked and double-checked, why she needed precise limits. She’s so moved by him, by seeing him that abandoned. He had fought so hard to give himself up to her.

She hadn’t come last night, hadn’t missed it. They’d done it because he’d wanted it, but it had felt good to get it just right, like the satisfaction of feeling along a fuel line to find and fix a crack. And she loves the way he went happy and gentle afterwards, at ease in her arms. So she nods.

“I like being able to give you that,” she says. Her voice is hoarse in her own ears. “I like seeing you.”

“Yeah?” She nods again, strokes his hair, thick and springy under her palm. He smells good, clean and warm, a little musky. He nuzzles at her, face against her neck. “You said…” His voice trails off.

“Mmm?”

“Last night.” Max sounds wary. There’s a pause, and he clears his throat, a little grunt before he speaks again. “Said ‘mine.’”

“It felt right. For that.” She’s trying to keep her breath steady. “Was it okay?”

He nods against her, but she thinks he’s waiting for something. Honesty pushes her on, makes her keep talking.

“And, and. Sometimes I feel like that. About you.” More than just sometimes, she admits to herself. Now she’s the one looking at the ceiling. She knows Max has lifted his head, can see the movement from the corner of her eye. She knows he’s looking at her.

“Yeah?” When she nods, he leans in to kiss her jaw, working his way up. “Liked it.” He’s cupping her head, his kiss slow and soft when he reaches her mouth. She can feel herself relaxing, her tension flowing away. His voice is at its gruffest when he adds, “Felt, mmm. Safe. With you.”

Furiosa wraps herself around him, arms tight and legs tangling with his, as close as she can get. Her fingertips brush the scar on his neck.

“Mine.” She says it right into his ear, her voice scratchy, saying it now before she loses her nerve. The noise he makes is half hum, half murmur, soft and pleased. He leans up to kiss her. Remembering what he had said about the morning after fighting, she strokes her hand down his back, comforting and firm. Max hums again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr and [on Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/lurkinghistoric).


End file.
